Chapter Three

T he force of his opponent’s blow reverberated up Augustin’s arm, numbing it. The shocked surprise on the other knight’s face must have mirrored on his own.

“Are you so eager for death?” the furious knight challenged. “Had we been in battle this day, you would have been hacked to bits, thrice over!”

Augustin accepted his cousin, Georges’s words as the truth. His mind was not on the routine training drills, it was tangled up with the king’s unwanted gift, and the dreaded discussion ahead of him.

“Henri,” Georges, called out, “hand-to-hand!”

The older knight nodded his understanding and turned back to the men, shouting orders for them to pair up. Sounds of men engaged in combat rang out once again.

Suddenly exhausted, Augustin stood still as a stone while Georges helped remove the dented helm from his ringing head. Now that he was not moving, aches blossomed all over his body. Unfortunately, they were not painful enough to forget the upcoming confrontation with his daughter.

“She’s going to hate me,” Augustin said, holding his helm beneath his arm.

“She cannot,” Georges said quietly.

The clash of steel upon steel lessened, dwindling until only the snort of the destriers, and heavy breathing of men, echoed through the sudden silence. The rest of his men must have sensed the seriousness of their discussion and paused to listen to their conversation.

He met his cousin’s gaze and understood. They would speak privately later.

Augustin removed the heavy gauntlets and handed them to Georges. The ache behind his eyes intensified. Without thinking, he rubbed at it with grimy, sweat-slickened hands.

He swore ripely. The sweat and dirt he had unconsciously ground into his eyes stung.

“I don’t know what to say to her,” Augustin bit out, angry at his own indecision. He shifted the helm to carry it under his right arm and willed his left hip to loosen, so that he could walk with only the barest of limps.

Georges’s eyes narrowed, and Augustin knew there was no hope his cousin hadn’t noticed the old injury was bothering him.

“Did you at least try the remedy I left with you?”

“I do not need potions to make my body strong enough to fight. I can still best men half my age!” Augustin felt the boast stick in his throat when the muscles in his hip locked up and the familiar feeling of bone grinding against bone caused a shaft of pain to shoot into his lower back and down his leg.

Only his ironclad will kept him from pitching forward into the sandy dirt of the practice field. Sweat broke out all over his body as he struggled to stay upright.

Georges must have seen the look on his face because he grabbed at Augustin’s arm to support him, making it look as if he was taunting him into testing his mettle further.

“I’ve got you,” Georges ground out through clenched teeth. “Just a few more feet, and we’ll be in the stable yard.”

Augustin didn’t dare open his mouth for fear the groan of agony he stifled would be ripped from him.

“Nod if you can make it that far.”

The side of his head throbbed, but Augustin managed to nod. The stable was nearly empty, with the exception of a few destriers and one of the stable lads filling the troughs with water from the well.

The cool, dark interior of the building blocked out the fierce heat of the sun, immediately chilling the sweat on his body.

“Milords.” The young boy had stopped his chores, waiting for them to speak.

“Send for Baron de Chauret’s squire,” Georges ordered. “He is in the bailey tending to his master’s horse.”

“Aye, milord.” The young lad answered, and ran off to do as he was bid.

“What can I do?” his cousin asked.

“I need to lie down flat so my hip will slip back into place,” he answered.

“Here?”

“Aye,” Augustin glanced around the still-empty stable. “The longer I wait, the harder it becomes.”

Georges nodded his understanding and helped him to lie on the hard-packed dirt floor. The rich scent of it, combined with the familiar scent of hay and horse, soothed him.

He could feel his bones shifting again, but they didn’t quite settle back into line. He would have to force the bones to realign themselves. It was sheer agony but he lifted his left leg, bending it at the knee, and brought it up to his chest. Breathing deeply, he lowered the knee toward the right side of his body. With a slip and a pop, his hip settled back into place.

Georges winced in reaction to the sound.

Augustin had seen his cousin hack through an entire company of men in the heat of battle. That the sound of bone sliding past bone should upset him was a surprise.

Their eyes met, and understanding flashed between them. It was not just the tie of blood that bound them together, they had been friends since fostering together during their tenth summer.

As if Georges could read Augustin’s mind, he spoke softly, “’Tis not just the injury, ’tis the one who suffers from it.” His gaze lingered on Augustin’s face for a brief second before he reached out a hand to help him to his feet.

“Any warrior who can suffer through that can certainly brace himself to face his only daughter.”

Augustin had to smile at that. “Mayhap now I will have the courage to do so.”

Georges handed him back his helm, looking pointedly at the large dent in it. Augustin smiled and nodded his head. “But first, I’ll have this pounded out.”

*

“But Papa, I do not wish to leave London.” The petite young beauty’s voice was firm. Her ice-blue eyes had grown noticeably colder as they narrowed on him.

Augustin could all but feel the temperature drop in the chamber. “You may stay here until the holding is made ready for you.”

“Papa,” she pleaded, her eyes welling up with tears. Guilt swept up from his toes, settling in his gut. She was the image of her mother.

“You may stay here with cousin Genvieve, until I send for you.”

“I will not leave,” she announced, stamping her foot.

Augustin stopped in the doorway and turned around, “I had thought to let you ask whom you wished to accompany you on the journey, now…”

“I cannot leave.”

“Angelique,” Augustin sighed. “The king has decided to grant Merewood Keep to me. I would be ten times a fool to refuse him.” He rubbed a hand across his throat. “I am rather fond of my head where it is,” he finished grimly.

“Oh, Papa,” Angelique cried, throwing herself into his arms. “I’m sorry.”

As always, her tears cut right through his anger, humbling him. “Do not weep, ma petite ,” he whispered, absently smoothing the tangles from her midnight-colored hair. “’Twill be all right. We still have one another.”

When her tear-stained face lifted, his heart clenched in his chest. She looked so like his beloved Monique that for a brief moment he actually considered defying his king. His head would not look so bad at the top of a pointed pike.

“Come. Let us find Genvieve, and ask if she would care to make the journey with you.”

“I love you,” Angelique whispered brokenly.

He gathered her into his arms and kissed the top of her head, “Not as much as I love you, ma petite .”